Behind the Six Team
by LadyofDodge
Summary: This story was written as a challenge to create a backstory for one of the many minor Gunsmoke characters, a character we know as a person, but about whom we *know* very little.


**Behind the Six Team**

**(Jim Buck)**

"Sorry to inconvenience you folks even more, but it looks like we're gonna be spending the night here. Blacksmith says he'll get that wheel fixed soon's he can, but it won't be 'til morning. I guess the good news is there's a hotel of sorts right over there." Jim Buck, the driver of the disabled stage, nodded across the street. "No telegraph office, though, so I'm afraid you can't send a wire to let anyone know you've been delayed." He looked upward. "Lines are probably down anyway with this storm."

"Well, now, bein' delayed in a hotel with that looker over there don't seem like no inconvenience to me." The older of the two male passengers advanced on the redhead standing by the side of the stagecoach. "How 'bout it, Red? You wanna share the sheets with me tonight?"

"I'd as soon share a bed with a pig as with you, mister." Crinkling her nose in distaste and grabbing her hatbox from the passenger seat, Kitty Russell turned and flounced through the slush toward the building that Jim Buck had indicated.

Muggs Moxley smirked at Buck and his fellow passenger and said cockily, "She'll be mine by morning. You'll see."

Jim Buck shook his head. "I don't want any trouble here, Moxley. She said no, so I'd advise you to stay away from her."

"And just who made you her chaperone?"

"No one made me anything. I'm just saying stay away from her. Like I said, I don't want any trouble."

The other passenger, a slender young man, spoke for the first time. "If you'll be so good as to get my bag down, driver, I'm going to secure a room and then see about getting a bite to eat." His glance included both men. "Perhaps you would care to join me?"

"Eh, I'd rather join that fine piece in there, but, hey, a man needs grub, too. I'll git back to her later." He kicked at the broken wheel. "She ain't goin' nowhere."

**x**

Inside the ramshackle building that passed for the town of Cat Tail's only hotel, Kitty signed the register and climbed the lop-sided stairs to her room, relieved to avoid further confrontation with her fellow passenger. Oh, she could handle one odious man—she ran a saloon, after all—but why voluntarily subject herself to more of his unwanted advances? She had changed seats twice on the trip from Wichita to their current location, and she wasn't sure which was more repugnant—sitting next to him where she could smell the male sweat of his unkempt body and where every jostle and jolt of the coach served to nudge them closer together, or sitting across from him where she couldn't help but observe the lascivious leer that blatantly suggested his intent.

The third passenger, a budding young banker or businessman, she presumed, had uttered not a word, but he was respectful. It was he, in fact, who had noticed her discomfort and, with a slight inclination of his head, initiated the change of seats.

It was going to be a long trip back to Dodge. Sighing, she removed her hat, dabbed at the wet feathers with a towel and placed it on top of the big round box. Glancing into the milky mirror, she fluffed up her hair with her fingers, wiped the grunge from her face, and sat down on the edge of the bed to wait for Jim Buck to deliver her bags to her room.

_The sky had been clear when the stage and its three passengers left the relay station at Doberman, but two hours west the air changed, and ominous gray storm clouds hung heavily on the horizon. It wasn't long before darkness and swirling snow engulfed the countryside, swallowing up familiar markers and leaving the landscape indiscernible in the blizzard that descended rapidly over the Kansas prairie. _

_They moved forward slowly, cautiously, until, without warning, the stage pitched to the right. Kitty felt the sudden shift in motion as Jim Buck swiftly worked the lines to correct the skid. But the lead horse's reflexes were quicker. Startled, the big Morgan lurched forward of his own accord, working to reverse the slide and remain upright. Predictably, the rest of the team scrambled to follow, inadvertently catapulting the coach's right front wheel into a foot deep icy trench along the side of the road. The stage swayed precariously for interminable seconds before coming to rest, right wheels dug into the ditch, left wheels spinning aimlessly above the ground._

"_Everyone all right in there?" Buck had shouted over the whistle of the wind. The passengers replied in the affirmative, and Kitty, straining to peer through the window, saw the driver climb down from the box to untangle the horses from their ribbons and to check them for injuries. "Just sit tight for a minute 'til I get this door open and can get you out of there."_

_When he came around to open the door, he spoke. "You men are going to have to help me lift us out of the rut. The horses can do most of the work, but I have a lame one up there, and I don't want to risk further injury. We have a cracked wheel, too, but I think if we can get back on the road, we can limp into the next town. It'll be slow going, but it beats spending the night out here."_

"_How can I help?" Kitty asked._

"_Well, now, let's get you out of there," he said, raising his arms to lift her down. "And while we're working up front, look around as best you can—don't go anywhere, we don't wanna lose you—and see if anything looks familiar."_

_Kitty dug the heels of her new kid traveling boots into the slush and turned to her left. Nothing. She pivoted to the right and squinted into the darkness. More nothing. Or was it? Maybe…. Tiny pellets of sleet stung her face. Disregarding them, as well as Jim Buck's warning, she cautiously made her way to the other side of the road for a closer look at what she hoped was the biggest tree she had ever seen in her life._

"_Kitty…Miss Kitty?" _

"_Over here, Jim." She hoped he could follow the sound of her voice. _

_He did, and found her in a small, wet heap at the foot of a huge cottonwood tree. "I thought I told you not to move. Are you hurt?"_

"_No, just wet."_

"_What happened?"_

"_I came over here for a closer look, but I tripped over something—an exposed tree root, I think. This is embarrassing, but my boots are new. The soles are slick and smooth, and I can't get my footing on this ice." She frowned in humiliation. "You're going to have to pull me up."_

_Jim Buck stood her on her feet and asked again, "You sure you're all right?"_

_She nodded. "I'm fine, Jim. Wet, but otherwise okay. And I may have found something. It's awfully hard to see, but if that _is_ a huge, exposed tree root…well…I think I've tripped over it before."_

"_You're sure?"_

_Again she nodded, more slowly this time. "Pretty sure. If I'm right, it's that gigantic old cottonwood out by Cat Tail Creek. Take a closer look and see what you think."_

"_Darned if I don't think you're right. That tree's at the head of the creek, and the creek runs due west for about eight miles, right up to the edge of town. Not much of a town, but there's a hotel and, if we're lucky, a blacksmith. Even with the weather conditions and a lame horse, we should make it in under two hours."_

Now, warm and relatively dry, Kitty smiled to herself. She was grateful that Jim Buck had not shown a whit of interest in her personal knowledge of the old cottonwood. Yes, the tree was right by the edge of the road, but if you followed the path down the south side, it led to a deeply secluded grove of sunflowers and prairie grasses where, a long time ago on a balmy spring afternoon, she and her cowboy….

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and the stage driver dropped two carpetbags inside. "Here you go, Miss Kitty, and thanks. I'm much obliged to you for tripping over that old root."

**xxx**

The three men finished their meal and exited Cookie's Café just as the stunning redhead, looking clean and refreshed and wearing dry clothes, was crossing the street in their direction.

"Lookee here, boys," Moxley said as Kitty approached. "She's come lookin' fer me, just couldn't wait fer me to come to her."

"I warned you, Moxley," Jim Buck said. "Stay away from the lady."

Muggs Moxley spit in the dirt and howled with laughter. "Lady? She ain't no lady. I seen her last time I was in Dodge City. Her name's Kitty and she runs the biggest saloon and whor.…" His revelation was interrupted by a well placed upper cut to the jaw that sent him crumpling into the street.

Jim Buck turned and stared at the third passenger in disbelief. "For a quiet man, you pack quite a wallop."

"Had as much as I could take of that guy." He tugged on the points of his vest. "It was bad enough listening to his complaints about the weather and the inconvenience the whole time he watched us lifting the wheel. Then all through supper I had to hear his braggadocio of the cons he's run and the women he's had." He looked at Kitty. "I beg your pardon, ma'am, I shouldn't have said that in front of you."

Kitty laughed. "Believe me, I've heard worse."

The young man continued. "But when he insulted you like that, I…I guess I lost control. Just thought I'd quiet him down for a while."

"Can't say I mind that you did." Buck turned to Kitty. "I'm sorry, Miss Kitty, sorry you had to hear any of that. And I'm sorry the stage line doesn't screen its passengers."

Kitty smiled at the driver. "It's a lot like my business, I guess. If you limit your clientele to only those who are clean, neat, orderly and polite, you won't _have_ a business very long. Especially out here." She spoke to her fellow passenger. "And thank you, Mister….?"

"Smythe…John Henry Smythe." He nodded. "At your service."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Smythe." Kitty extended her hand. "I'm Kitty Russell. Are you going through to Dodge?"

He took her hand and answered. "As a matter of fact, I am, Miss Russell. If you really do own a business there, I'm sure we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other. You see, I've been hired as junior accountant at the Dodge City Bank."

"Well, indeed we will then. I do my banking there." She leaned in confidentially. "And I really do own the Long Branch Saloon. Moxley was right about that part. Be sure to stop in, first drink's on the house."

As if on cue, Muggs Moxley shook his head and pushed himself up from the street. He glared at his aggressor. "I should kill you for that."

"But you won't." Kitty interjected quickly. "In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Smythe isn't wearing a gun. Now why don't you just run along and not bother us anymore tonight?"

They watched Moxley skulk away, and then Jim Buck glanced back at Kitty. "If you're going into the café, I'd like to go with you, if you don't mind. I'm not sure you've seen the last of that one."

"I'm not sure I have either, and I'd appreciate your company, Jim. Yours, too, Mr. Smythe, if you'd care to join us."

**x**

Over coffee and passably good raisin pie, the little threesome became acquainted.

"…grandfather thought I was entirely too bookish, so he forced me to join the boxing club at Harvard. To my surprise, I liked it—gave me a reprieve from books and numbers—and, even more amazing, I was good at it." He blushed and rubbed the reddened knuckles of his right hand. "Today's the first time I've ever hit anyone outside the ring."

"And hopefully it will be the last," Kitty replied. "Although, if you're going to live in Dodge, knowing how to defend yourself is a handy skill to have." She glanced at the driver for confirmation. "Right, Jim?"

"Well, now, Miss Kitty, I don't exactly live in Dodge. I just pass through on a regular basis. But I will say it never seems dull."

Kitty laughed out loud. "Now that's an understatement!"

The waiter interrupted Kitty's laughter. "In case you folks ain't noticed, no one's come in here in the last half hour. It's late and I'm closing up."

"Friendly fellow," Smythe observed as he placed some coins on the table. "My treat."

"Well," Kitty demurred, "I know how he feels. Many's the night I've wanted to say the same thing, but it's not the best way to gain repeat customers."

"And we look like we're just passin' through, so he's not worried about that," Buck added.

They re-crossed the street and entered the hotel. As Kitty approached the desk, Jim Buck ushered Smythe off to the side. "You know, I have a bad feeling about that Moxley character. Wouldn't surprise me if he doesn't try to bother her again tonight."

"I've been thinking the same thing. I saw the way he was looking at her inside that coach, but I don't know what to do about it."

"I have an idea, but I'll need your help." The two men spoke quietly for a few minutes, then took their keys and headed up the stairs to their respective rooms.

**xxx**

Alone in her dingy hotel room, Kitty prepared for bed, thanking her lucky stars that Jim Buck was the driver on this trip. She had known him for years, a quiet, likable and competent man who drove some of the longest and most dangerous routes the Michaelson Express Company had ever mapped. He frequently came into the Long Branch during a stage stop, and he treated her and the girls with respect. He'd drink a beer, and, if Matt was there, chat with him about road conditions, Indian uprisings, bandit attacks and the like. And, most important of all, she knew Matt liked and trusted the man. On more than one occasion she had heard him ask Jim to keep an eye out for signs of trouble along a particular route and to report back to him.

As she brushed her hair, she heard a scuffle in the hall. Slipping into a heavy chocolate brown robe, she cautiously opened the door and peered out, surprised to see John Henry Smythe holding a pearl handled revolver on an obviously intoxicated Muggs Moxley while Jim Buck struggled to hustle the reprobate back down the stairs.

"I wanna woman," Moxley roared, trying unsuccessfully to throw off the stage driver's grip.

"Not-that-woman," Buck replied in a low voice that clearly enunciated each word.

The two men stumbled down the last two steps into what passed for the lobby of the seedy hotel. Buck called to the desk clerk, "Which way to the sheriff's office?"

"No sheriff in this town. We have our own ways a dealin' with things in Cat Tail."

Jim Buck thought for a minute. Then he checked Moxley's pockets and pulled a heavy key from the man's vest. He handed it to the clerk. "All right, then. Keep this man's key and give him back the money he paid for the room. He won't be using it tonight." He dragged Moxley to the door and booted him into the street. "Go sleep in the alley with the rest of the vermin."

**x**

Back upstairs, Buck found Kitty and John Henry Smythe in her room. "I'd like to think we've seen the last of him, but I doubt it. Miss Kitty, I think Smythe here and I need to stand watch outside your door tonight."

Kitty considered the suggestion before answering. "You're very kind, boys, and, much as I abhor the idea of needing protection, I accept your offer. I don't mind telling you I'd prefer not to deal with him again tonight. Or ever." She reached into her carpetbag and withdrew a bottle of Old Prairie. "Buy you a drink?"

As she poured the drinks, she commented to the would-be junior accountant, "I must say, you looked mighty comfortable with that pistol, Mr. Smythe."

The young man flushed. "John Henry, please. Grandfather again. He has a magnificent collection of firearms—lots of Revolutionary War muskets and rifles and sabers and such. He lived—still lives—in a big old brownstone on Beacon Hill in Boston. I loved looking at his guns when I was a child. I helped him with cataloguing and maintaining them, and he insisted if I was going to handle them, I was going to handle them _and_ _use_ them correctly. Taught me himself." He laughed. "The two of us are probably responsible for the demise of enough bottles and tin cans to fill the Old North Church graveyard."

Kitty twirled the whiskey bottle on the small writing desk. "What about you, Jim? You said you don't live in Dodge. Where do you live?"

He chuckled. "Mostly, I live behind six horses on 24 inches of wooden platform. But when I'm not up there, I have a little place in the Smoky Hill country. It's not much, but it meets my needs." He paused and then added, "I grew up around there, so it's home to me."

"What about you, Miss Russell? You don't strike me as being from this area."

"Well, John Henry, Dodge has been my home for a lot of years, but I grew up in New Orleans."

The young man looked surprised. "But…but, back east they refer to Dodge City as the 'Gomorrah of the Plains.' How on earth did you go from growing up in that beautiful, sophisticated southern city to owning a saloon out here?"

Kitty put the whiskey bottle back into her bag and smiled at the two men. "Oh, no, you don't, young man." She winked at John Henry. "A lady _always_ needs to maintain an air of mystery."

Buck stood, downing the last of his drink. "And we all need to turn in. You go on to bed, Smythe. I'll take the first watch."

**x**

As he settled in for the agreed upon three hour watch outside of Kitty Russell's door, Jim Buck balanced the chair on its back legs, leaned his head against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and envisioned the family farm just north of the Republican River. He had been born in that house in 1845, and had grown up there, the first of three children and the only son born to Amos and Muriel Buck.

While he loved and looked out for his two little sisters, he didn't find them much fun as playmates, and he took to wandering away from the little farm. By the time he was six, he was fishing in the river on his own, proudly coming home with a string of catfish for dinner. As he grew older, he roamed farther and farther away from the homestead. And, as he did, the woods, the trees, and the surrounding barren countryside became his friends and playmates until there wasn't a bend in the road that he didn't know, not a curve on the river that didn't tell him exactly where he was along its course. He loved the freedom of being out there, of being one with the sun and the wind, the heat, the cold, the trees, the grass—even the rain, and, of course, the never ending sky that stretched above the western landscape.

When he was twelve years old, he watched in awe from the side of a dirt road as a stagecoach of the Butterfield Overland Express Company, carrying both mail and passengers, sped by on that historic first journey from St. Louis to San Francisco. For the next two years, as often as possible, he would be along the side of that road on Wednesday and Saturday mornings to watch the stage fly by.

His father talked about the day his son would take over the family farm, but young Jim had other ideas. He was no longer content with just watching the stage go by; he wanted to drive it, to be a part of the excitement of moving across the country at terrifying speeds, slapping the lines, controlling the massive beasts that pulled the 2400 pound coach.

The desire never left him. At sixteen, and with his parents' blessings as well as their misgivings, he took himself to the stage office at Hays and signed on as an apprentice driver about the same time the opening shots of the Civil War were fired in South Carolina.

Once in the high seat, he developed a whole new appreciation for the strength and skill of the men he had so far only observed from afar. He learned that his touch on the lines was his communication with his team of horses—four on the flat plains, six on the hilly terrain—and that they responded to every subtle movement of his hands. He learned to read the horses, too—to discern which ones worked best together and where to position them—the most intelligent and courageous in front for they were the team leaders, the strongest and most muscular at the back, for they were the ones directly responsible for pulling the load and giving passengers a comfortable ride.

He was into the second year of his apprenticeship, making short "mail only" runs on his own, when the war reached Kansas and interrupted his training. With his superior knowledge of the land, he was a natural cavalry scout, riding the western countryside with none other than the man who would later become known to the entire world as "Buffalo Bill" Cody.

With the war behind him, he went back to Hays and resumed his training, still determined to become a stagecoach driver. On the day he successfully completed his first solo run with passengers, from Hays to Topeka, he felt an elation he had never known before, and he was totally hooked. It had all been worth it.

He settled his chair onto the floor, stretched his back, and smiled to himself. All these years later, in spite of the elements and the occasional attacks by bandits or Indians, the thrill of the run had never left him. And, God willing, he would have another successful run tomorrow, delivering his passengers safely to their destination. He had a plan.

**xxx**

By morning the skies had cleared, and Jim Buck was out early, visiting the stable to check on his injured horse. The saltwater bath and rubdown he had given the beast the night before had helped considerably, and he determined that, if he took it slow, the gelding could make it to the next relay station without additional injury. Breathing a sigh of relief, he headed to the café where Kitty and John Henry were just finishing their breakfasts, all three happy to note they had not seen the despicable Muggs Moxley, and no one was about to seek him out.

But just as the bags were loaded, and the stage was about to pull out of town, the man appeared, preparing to climb into the coach. "Stop right there, Moxley. You won't be riding with us today," Buck called to the drifter.

"What d'ya mean? My ticket's just as good as theirs." He inclined his head toward Kitty and Smythe, who were settled on opposite seats inside.

"Your ticket may be just as good, but your actions leave a lot to be desired. You're not going on with us."

"You can't put me off."

Buck smiled. "As a matter of fact, I can." He opened the door wider and pointed to the lettered sign posted on the side wall of the coach. "Read the last line." Not certain if Moxley could read or not, Buck read it aloud to be sure the man understood.

Gents guilty of unchivalrous behavior toward lady passengers will be put off the stage. It's a long walk back. A word to the wise is sufficient.

"That means you, Moxley," Buck added.

Moxley sputtered. "This ain't right. I didn't do nuthin. I was just havin' a little fun."

"Sorry. I intend to finish this run without any more of your kind of fun. So you might as well start walking—either east or west—makes no difference to me."

As Moxley grumped off, Kitty spoke up. "Thanks, Jim. I'm sure we'll all have a more enjoyable ride today."

"My pleasure, Miss Kitty. I take a lot of pride in my good record, and if anything happened to you, I'd never forgive myself." He leaned in, lowered his voice, and grinned. "And I sure wouldn't wanna face that big marshal who's waiting at the end of the line, either." With that, he tipped his hat and climbed onto the high perch behind the six team, once again relishing the feel of the sun and the wind on his face as he cracked the lines and headed west.

**The End**

NOTE: In writing this story, I came across this list of rules for Wells Fargo stagecoach passengers. Let's assume, for purposes of the story, that all stage lines had a similar set of rules.

Abstinence from liquor is requested, but if you must drink share the bottle. To do otherwise makes you appear selfish and unneighborly.

If ladies are present, gentlemen are urged to forego smoking cigars and pipes as the odor of same is repugnant to the gentler sex. Chewing tobacco is permitted, but spit with the wind, not against it.

Gentlemen must refrain from the use of rough language in the presence of ladies and children.

Buffalo robes are provided for your comfort in cold weather. Hogging robes will not be tolerated and the offender will be made to ride with the driver.

Don't snore loudly while sleeping or use your fellow passenger's shoulder for a pillow; he or she may not understand and friction may result.

Firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies. Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals as the sound riles the horses.

In the event of runaway horses, remain calm. Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indians and hungry coyotes.

Forbidden topics of conversation are: stagecoach robberies and Indian uprisings.

Gents guilty of unchivalrous behavior toward lady passengers will be put off the stage. It's a long walk back. A word to the wise is sufficient.


End file.
